Big Lies in a Small Town - Diane Chamberlain Page 0,37
his hand across his chin, his gaze back on the mural. After a moment, he let out a long breath. “I have some experience,” he said finally. “I apprenticed to a conservator for a year after college. I don’t have a lot of time, with the insane deadline for this place, but I can try to give you some guidance.”
“Oh my God, Oliver!” It was as though a huge knot in my chest had loosened. I felt like hugging him, but stayed where I was. “I’ll … I’ll bake you brownies or do your laundry. Whatever you need.”
He half smiled, but I could see he wasn’t happy. “A simple thank-you will do,” he said.
“Thank you, then,” I said. “Please don’t tell the other guys here.” I glanced toward the front yard where I could picture Wyatt and Adam working on the stretcher. “I don’t want everyone to know I was in prison.”
“No problem,” he agreed. “It’s best if they think you know what you’re doing, anyway.” He pointed to the mural. “So, take a look at it,” he said. “What do you notice right off the bat?”
“That it smells terrible and the colors look like various shades of dirt. It’s filthy.”
“Yes, it’s got a pretty revolting layer of grime on it, so the first thing you’ll need to do is clean it, and fortunately you don’t need anything fancy for that. We’ll figure out what fancy supplies you do need for later and order them. Then you can work on an aqueous cleaning while you’re waiting for them to arrive.” He went on to describe how I could use a cotton-wrapped dowel and distilled water to slowly and meticulously clean the mural. “Anna Dale painted in oil, but you know about not using oil paint for inpainting, right?”
Mortified that I knew no such thing, I said nothing, thinking, Why not? Then I got it. “It would age at a different rate from the older paint?” I guessed.
“Smart girl.” Oliver gave me a light tap on the shoulder. “There’s hope for you,” he said. “Anna Dale used no varnish, so you have no varnish to remove and you shouldn’t varnish it when you’re done restoring it, either, since you want to stay true to the artist’s vision.”
“This artist had a bizarre vision,” I said, pointing to the motorcycle where it peeked out from behind the filthy skirts of the Tea Party ladies.
“Or maybe a sense of humor.” Oliver shook his head. “I can’t quite figure it out.” He grinned down at the mural. “I love it, though. I’ve seen a million of these old government-sponsored murals and they’re usually dull as dishwater. At least this one has a little spark in it. It intrigues me. So, anyway”—he shifted, hands in his pockets again—“Restoration 101: photograph everything. Every step along the way, take pictures. You want a record. Take a good distance photo of the whole mural before you start and close-ups of each scene, especially any areas of damage. Got it?”
“I do,” I said. “Photograph everything.” The words made me feel hopeful for some reason. For the first time in a few days, I wasn’t completely lost. Here was something concrete I could do.
Oliver pulled a notepad from his back jeans pocket and began making a list of the supplies I would need to order and where to get them. “You need to get a good spray bottle. And a dowel, maybe half an inch around, from the hardware store. Then go to the beauty supply store in town and buy some cotton. Genuine cotton. It comes in long strips.”
I watched him jot down the items on the list.
“And a ball of twine and some tacks, like these.” Oliver leaned over and touched one of the tacks attaching the mural to the two-by-four. “Get a lot of them,” he said, “and a couple of gallons of distilled water.”
I tried to imagine lugging gallons of distilled water and dowels and the other supplies down the street. “I don’t have a car,” I said.
“You can borrow my van.”
“I don’t have a license.”
He studied me curiously and I held his gaze. “DUI?” he asked.
I nodded.
“You went to prison for a DUI?”
“It … got complicated.”
He raised his eyebrows in a gesture I was beginning to think of as uniquely his. “I’ll send one of the builders to get the material,” he said.
“Sorry,” I said. “Really. Sorry to create more problems for you.”
He touched my bare shoulder lightly again. “Did you design this tattoo?” he asked.